Lite Pendente
by Oldwickedsongs
Summary: [Ultraviolet] Set a month or so after the miniseries, Pearse learns how to die, while the rest of the team struggle with the doubts and infighting left behind as they struggle to continue a war they no longer believe in.
1. Solitary

Disclaimer: "If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended,

That you did but slumber'd here while these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme is no more yielding then a dream."

-Midsummer's Night Dream

**Lite Pendente**

By: Lady Erised

_"I went to the woods because  
__I wished to live deliberately,  
__and not, when I came to die  
__discover that I had not lived."  
_ - Henry David Thoreau 

**Chapter One: Solitary**

"_Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints." _

His fingers lingered over the words, feeling the cold paper underneath his skin, smooth, and thin. He'd been staring at the words for the past 45 minutes, seeing them but not really reading them. He didn't need to read them at all. He had memorized them a long time ago, in his studies and then to help him sleep later, to help him look at himself in the mirror every morning not cringe at the image staring back at him.

"_For dust you are, and to dust you will return…"_

He could spit them out one after another.

"_For it is appointed unto man to die once."_

He knew his dogma well. He could even recite those meant to comfort and heal.

"_O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?"_

And once, he had taken comfort in those words. Once, he believed, truly believed in those words. His faith had been an anchor, the one steady place he could always cling to when the world and all its improbabilities threatened to pull and tear him apart. Always his faith had been there for him, and he had never questioned it-truly questioned it, until now.

Now it felt like his faith itself had turned against him. The words that once had brought him comfort felt like fire and ash. They crept up inside of his throat and clawed at him. And it seemed at times that the pain was so much that he would falter, would collapse under the weight and tremble. And there were times he wanted too. There were times he wanted to scream, wanted to rip and claw wildly at himself, at the world, at anything that made him hurt.

He was frightened and hurting, and even now, he could not reach out and touch the one thing that had always made him feel wanted. He could not pull back and remember.

O god, my god, why have you forsaken me…

The words tasted like ash and his mind swam.

O death…

Pearse Harman jumped when the cup was placed in front of him. He stared at it for a long moment before pulling his attention towards the deliverer. A woman had walked around him, set the drink down and sat across from him. She settled down now, folding her arms over themselves on the table and fixing him in her gaze.

She had a round face, old but pretty and intelligent brown eyes that watched him mindfully without expression. There was something about her that made him sit up, and lean back. For a moment, he hesitated, trying to wipe the emotion off his face before speaking.  
As it would happen, she spoke first.

"You needed it." She said, motioning to the cup. "You've been sitting here for the past hour." her eyes flickered to the pile of books resting on the table between them and licked her lips slightly. "…recent news?"

Pearse became aware of the books and sat up again, breaking her gaze and looking away. "What do you mean?"

The woman reached over letting her fingers run over the spines of the books he had chose. Immediately, he turned away and stared at the other people in the café while she read them aloud. "Surviving Cancer, Death and Dying, Cancer Care, Howell's Encyclopedia of Pharmaceuticals and…lastly, and though not surprisingly, the bible." Her eyes found his again before she pulled away. It was her turn to lean back in thoughtful repose. "It's not the hard to read your story."

Pearse continued to watch the patrons of the bookstore.

Finally, the woman shifted again, moving to rise. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude, I just…you reminded me of a man I once knew. And he had…you two share..." She tapped the books with her fingers. "When I saw you sitting there, you like you needed someone to talk with. I don't know you, but I remember how he felt. He was very lonely when I met him, and very afraid…I just want to let you, " She paused again, looking out into space somewhere. "I thought maybe you needed someone to talk to. I'm sorry again…" She turned to walk way.

Pearse let her walk out of his sight before speaking. "Is he gone?"

He heard the rustling of her coat as she turned around. There was a pregnant pause between them. "Yes."

"From cancer?"

Another hesitation. "No." She said, finally. "He explored…other means, and found his own way out."

Pearse blinked, picking up the drink and sipping the coffee. He winced a little at the bitterness. "I'm sorry."

"My name's Olivia."

"Harman." He told her simply, and then, just to save her the trouble. "Father Harman."

She hesitated a moment, then gingerly returned to her seat. She smiled at him, an uncertain closed lipped smile he was accustomed to seeing on the respectful but not religious. "That explains the bible."

Pearse looked over at his worn, weathered beaten tome and allowed a guilty smile. "It's been with me when I needed it."

"Including now?"

Now, his smile flickered as he stared at the book. "That's what I'm hoping."

Olivia pushed one nervous hand around her neck, and tugged on her earlobe. Pearse took a long look at her.

She was typical of her gender and age; complete with short haircut and a blond dye job that she seemed to hope desperately made her look sexy. A long deep blue Irish sweater that peeled back enough to show off dingy jeans swallowed up her body. A body that was plusher around all the wrong edges which is probably she wore such unkempt clothing. And there were those intelligent brown eyes at once both soulful and sad, braced on each side by age lines. Her cheeks were sunken and flushed, but when she smiled, it seemed forced, and half-realized.

Pearse rolled the coffee cup between his fingers. Olivia swallowed and cleared her voice. For a moment, they sat in awkward silence. Then, without more attention, he drank.

"You really have bad taste in coffee." He drawled slowly.

Olivia peered out from behind her hand, and laughed at him. Slowly she lowered it and nodded. "My forte is punch bowls."

"Punch bowls?"

"Punch bowls," She said smartly, and sat up. "I collect antiques. I own a little shop down the street and well, I call it a shop but in all honestly, I try and avoid selling my babies." She smiled again. Pearse couldn't seem to tell if she smiling for him, or if they were sincere. Either way, he could tell it was the first time she had smiled in a long time. He found himself smiling with her.

"Have you collected long?" He asked, taking his drink up and swallowing another gulp.

Olivia gave him a rebuking glare that only bordered on harshness. She then shrugged a little, drawing her finger across the side of the table. "Since I was a child. My mother was a maid for a fine estate, and I remember walking through the kitchens in complete and utter awe of just the beauty of the things…most of the estate's possessions were antebellum. It was very magnificent and well, completely breath-taking."

"Did you grow up here in England?"

"In a way…"

Pearse leaned back and smiled as she spoke. He couldn't remember the last he had talked of something beside demons and diseases and found he was thirsty for it. Pushing aside the books on his table, he took the cup into his hand and nodded with each point she made. It had been so long since he felt his way that he was marveled by it. It had been so long since he felt that the world made sense…

That he was being heard.

He stayed with her till the bookstore's little cafe closed and walked her home.

----------

The conference room was, according to Vaughan Rice, the ugliest room he had ever seen. Painted gun metal gray, and unadorned by any form of artwork- cheap or otherwise, it held only a full wall of video screens and audio equipment, the long flat desk they sat at and nothing else apart from him, Angie and Michael. Pearse was twenty minutes late.

Pearse's tardiness wasn't helping his mood at all. If anything it gave his mind room to imagine, and right now, that's the last thing Vaughan wanted to do. He scoffed as he tapped his pen angrily against the folder. God, he hated this room.

Well, Vaughan thought bitterly, at least the others weren't faring much better. He slumped deeper against the back of his chair, sipped his bitter coffee and tried to ignore Michael.

Colefield was still making the best of coping to life in the organization. To him and his decidedly copper mind, morning briefings did not consist of some superior officer sweeping into the room, meting out assignments and then disappearing into his office never to be seen again until he was needed or decided to grace the world with his presence. To him, briefings were messy noisy affairs that consisted of him, Jack and about a handful of other coppers pretending to be 11 year olds and snickering over words like booger and bosoms. Then the boss could sweep into the room, but god with him, if he tried to do any work till Michael and his friends had tired of their games.

Vaughan grunted. In the service, he would have been court-marshaled for such pranks. Civilians. He hid the smile he had on his face as he turned away to look at Angie.

If Angela March was bored, concerned or content, she made no appearance of it outwardly. She was sitting hunched forward, reading the files she had before her with apparent interest. Every so often, she would glance up and stare at him or at Michael but never at the door. She did that on purpose. She wanted to make sure Vaughan realized she wasn't wondering where Pearse was, even if she was.

She wanted to show Vaughan she believed him. She, at least, trusted Pearse. Unlike him. She made a point of screaming that wordlessly at him. For his part, Vaughan took it too. He didn't shrink from it. Someone had to be the villain in this, after all, and since Pearse could not, Vaughan would step up.

Vaughan looked down at his paper. She acted like he had betrayed Pearse, as if he had killed him.

He tried to ignore the fact that he had, or at least, an idea of him.

There had been a time Rice could tell what kind of mood his boss was in from the way he walked. He had known Pearse Harman so well, so thoroughly that Pearse's nuances and habits were second nature to him. He had learned to work with, around and through each quirk till he hadn't noticed them at all really. They had simply been a part of Vaughan as much as Pearse himself.

Pearse had been Vaughan's leader and this was not a statement taken lightly, nor a trinket or bauble to be cast aside without thought or care. Vaughan was the oldest, best sort of soldier; the soul besmeared by the fact fell deeds must fall upon the shoulders of men strong enough to undertake them. And for his part he'd been willing to commit those petty little 'horrors' that no man should be asked to commit for the simple and plain reason that his cause was just, and his leader wise.

And as childish, narrow-minded as it seemed; that had been all Vaughan had really needed. Pearse was infallible, the one stable part in an unstable situation; the one guiding light in war. He had been…

Untouchable.

And now, doubt crept inside Vaughan's mind and begun to send tendrils of fear and bitterness through his whole body. He was a soldier, and as one, things were simple. Not absolute, or coldly lined and devised; just simple. A mission is completed. An enemy is defeated. Success relied on the man to each side of you, not the powers far above them like god or politicians. It was your mates that brought you home at the end of the day, your captain made sure you got home, not Providence.

You leaned on one another. You trusted each, and you never faltered or failed. Not because of your own strength, or your own vanity but simply because there were other people relying on you to bring to get home.

A lapse of resolve, a flickering of doubt could compromised a mission. A moment's weakness could ruin a squad, a team, a battalion. Battles had been lost by one second spent in indecision, in confusion. Lives had been lost.

His squad had been lost in confusion.

And he had sworn to himself, long ago, that he was not going to lose for one moment of weakness ever again. He was not going to run…

Sweet Jesus, he wanted to believe.

He wanted to believe. He really did. He could tell from Angie's wary eyes that she didn't believe him and he knew better then to expect Michael to understand what he felt. In truth, only Pearse could have possibly understood the duplicity of it all.

There was a mission that had to be done, against an enemy that was wiser, stronger, and more numerous. Failure and weakness could not be an issue. Pearse knew that.

Why hadn't he been stronger?

And why would Vaughan have to be the one who…

Even though he couldn't complete the thought, Vaughan knew better to question it. He would have to, he had accepted that. When the time came, if Pearse made that choice…it would be Vaughan.

Vaughn shut his eyes. He wanted to believe.

He just knew better.

There was a start, and shuffling of papers beside him.

Pearse walked into the room wordlessly. He was wearing the same black and beige clothing Vaughan had seen him in yesterday. The old man looked tired too. Unkempt. Old.

Sick.

Briefly, their eyes met and Pearse nodded a little. He favored the old priest with the sort of tired expression. Angie inhaled sharply, and sat up. Michael sat up too, and cleared his throat loudly, before favoring Pearse with a stern expression. "Well, thank you for choosing to join us Fr. Harman."

Pearse stopped in the doorway, and made a motion in passing directed to Michael. Whatever was left of his coffee was spilled over as Michael stared mouth agape.

"Did you see that? Did you see that?" Michael pointed, motioning wildly to Vaughan. "He flicked me off. The father gave me the finger! Did you see it?"

He shifted in his seat. "Didn't see nothing, sorry mate."

"Are you feeling quite alright?" Pearse asked quietly as he took his seat beside Angie. Michael crossed his arms, and slunk into his seat. Angie was staring at Pearse seriously. "You look pale."

"I'm sorry." Pearse shifted uneasily, and rubbed his eyes. "Haven't eat all day…"

Angie continued in the tone more doctorial then concerned. "Did you take your medication?"

"That's probably why the room is still spinning, right?"

"Pearse…" Angie began, darkly but Vaughan interrupted. He reared up, interested and favoring the Priest with a dark, searching look. Pearse reacted and couldn't seem to decide who was the better of two evils. "Why?"

"Wasn't home."

"Where were you?"

"Hey," Michael shouted. "Who fed Mess?"

"At Olivia's."

This time Vaughan's face registered surprise, and Angie glared at Pearse. "Olivia?"

"A very lady I met last night." Pearse whispered as he poured himself a coffee from the thermos in the center of the table.

"Where'd you met, Confession?"

"A café, the little one attached to McCoy's bookstore." Harman sipped the coffee slowly, eyes sliding shut as he savored the bitterness. He looked somewhere between complete exhaustion and this sort of almost childish happiness that Vaughan could not remember ever seeing before on Pearse's face. He shifted more, eyes darting towards Angie for direction. There was a quiet nod. "A café?"

"A woman?" Michael chirped happily. "Wow, I didn't think you fancied girls."

"Jealous?"

Michael's eyes narrowed at Pearse. "That's twice you insult me, little man."

"You make it too easy."

"Why were you at a bookstore?"

"To buy a book."

"A book?"

"About my cancer."

There was a dullness that seeped into the room that killed whatever small joy the teasing had birthed in the room a moment before. Angie was the only one not looking at Pearse or one another. For his part, Pearse just shrugged and continued, pulling his hands over his eyes. Vaughan continued to stare at him. Pearse hadn't so much as flinched when speaking of the cancer. It was the first time. He had spoken those words as easily as he would have brought attention to a new suit or hairstyle. Something had changed.

"She bought me a cup of coffee." Pearse was telling Angie's glare. "Said I looked lonely and came to sit down beside me."

"Who fed Mess?"

"So you just spent the night with a strange woman that you met in a coffee bar?" Angie asked, coolly. She was staring at him in a calculating way Vaughan was certain he'd never seen on her face before. He felt a stab of indignation.

"Bookstore. I met her in a book. I slept on the couch."

"In her house."

"That's where a couch is normally kept. Yes."

Angie turned to stare darkly at her papers. Michael leaned back, smiling blossoming from all pores. He seemed to be content that for the first time, he was not the certain of attention when trouble was brewing. Pearse finally pulled his head from his hands. "Is there a concern you want to address?"

"Want a list?" Pearse ignored Angie's tight remark and found himself doing something he never would have done, even in extreme circumstances, and glanced at Michael for backup. Michael folded his arms, and stared at the table. Harman stiffened and leaned back. "What's this then?" He asked into the silence of the room. "Another coup?"

"It has nothing to do with your trust-worthiness, Harman." Vaughan lied.

"Harman." The Priest returned. "Not Pearse. Already you've made your choice."

"It wasn't my breach of protocol, sir." Vaughan said before he could stop himself. He flinched and shut his eyes. Damnit. He wanted to believe.

"We're not concerned with you, Pearse." Angie began softly.

Pearse was staring at Vaughan blankly. That was something he had always been good at, Vaughan thought idly, Pearse could stare at you and not see you. Only your sins. Only your shortcomings. Only your truth in the most basic and base parts. "Then what?"

"The woman. Did you stop and think about her? You two met and already you've spent a substantial amount of time with her. There are things to consider, security for one."

"I didn't divulge any precious…" Pearse began hotly. He inhaled again, shivering again and reclining in his seat took another sip of coffee. Vaughan saw his hand tremble as it gripped the cup.

"Not our security," Vaughan intoned softly. "Hers."

Pearse looked startled.

"You aren't your own, none of us are, Pearse, remember?" Angie continued. "Just being who you are is enough to put her endanger with the Code V's."

Pearse was staring at the table. He looked tired again, and his shoulders sagged a little. "She's just a woman." He began weakly.

"Who may now be put in danger because of your connections to us." Vaughan supplied, and Michael finished. "What connections?" Michael asked coolly. "You are us, Pearse."

The blood had drained form his features as Pearse listened to them. Vaughan took another drink of coffee. Angie was watching her papers. Surprisingly only Michael continued to watch Harman. When the Priest finally looked up. "Right. She probably won't put you in danger, she's just some old woman who thought you looked lonely, but… but what about the reverse? Is that something you're willing to risk?"

There was a knock on the door. They all looked up, eager to be rid of the heaviness in the room. A young face Vaughan only vaguely remembered ever seeing out of battle fatigues peered in, eyes dancing weakly over each one's face before resting on Pearse's. "Delivery for you sir, in your office."

Harman sat quietly for a long moment before pushing up from the table. "Rice, and March…do what you have to do." He said simply before disappearing after the youth.

---------

Pearse Harman stood with his hands in his pockets staring at his desk and the obscenely excessive and large display of bright butter yellow daisies, deep blue forget-me-nots, and pale white baby breaths. It ate his desk and if possibly, seemed to be devouring his chair and was moving towards the floor. It was huge, and wide and above all, happy. He had never really realized that objects could be happy before he seen this flower display. But it was. It was large, and obstructive and more then content to be all of the above.

Pearse smiled as he walked closer to the desk. Hidden between daisy petals and under the aroma of the forget me nots, was a small card belonging to a small Italian restaurant he had always meant to try. Written on the back in small, lovely Catholic school-girl script was inscribed the message;

Forgive me father for I have sinned. I stole your wallet this morning in a sordid and lascivious attempt to see you again. If you want to see it again, come to the restaurant for lunch at quarter past two. Sincerely, Olivia Farrell.

Right above the word Sincerely, the word "Yours" had been crossed out. Pearse stared at the card. He smiled again.

Pearse checked his watch. If he went home to shower, changed and feed Mess, he'd still make it early to the restaurant. He glanced backwards without moving, towards the door. They'd noticed he was gone before he even made it to the restaurant. They were right, of course. Still, it had been so long since he had felt…

Like Pearse. Not Father Harman. There was a difference, and it had been one that he hadn't really known of till last night. But there was one. Because, after all, it was Pearse dying, not Father Harman.

He'd cut it off today; he told himself, after he got the wallet, and lunch. He could do that easily.

Pocketing the card, Pearse turned and walked out of his office. He left the door wide open.

And the flowers sat, unaffected by the changes at all.


	2. Strength

**Chapter Two: Strength **

Angela March took three steps into her lab and stood there. The bright artificial glow of the lights overhead made her eyes hurt and her mind still had that unpleasant buzzing feeling from the meeting this morning. So Pearse had met a woman. Fine, she thought. That's well and fine for a priest.

He'd slept on her couch.

In her house.

Angie reached over and gripped the side panel so tight her knuckles turned white as she continued to stare hatefully into the lab. Some woman, off the street and Pearse had just waltzed into her home and made himself comfortable. She'd known him for years, had fought along side him, had laughed and cried (well, she cried, Angela could never remember a time when she'd ever seen Harman so much as tear) along side him and never, never had he even stayed at her home past nine in the evening.

But this woman comes along and suddenly Pearse is playing sleepover.

She almost jumped when she felt Vaughan's warm hand over her own as he gently pulled her from the door, smiled at her and walked in. Vaughan walked over and sunk into the chair. He swung it about, and watched her.

"I'm not jealous." She snapped. "He's my boss."

Vaughan nodded sagely.

"But we have protocol for this kind of thing." She continued; she began to tap her fingers on the panel. "Protocol that he implemented, he wrote out…" She began to chew on her lip. "I mean, can you imagine how he would have reacted if you or I just told him what he's told us? He'd go spare!"

Vaughan nodded.

"And he'd be more then a little concerned. I mean, really, even if we didn't do what we do…how are you just going to trust some person off the street…"

He nodded again.

Angie stopped talking and stared at him. "He's not some kid cruising on a weekend, for god's sake."

"I know." Vaughan finally drawled leaning back. "He's a man."

"Pearse isn't a man…" She muttered unhappily. "He's a priest."

"…who is realizing that there are more days behind then ahead. Who has met a woman."

"A strange woman! I mean what do we know about her? Really?"

"She sent him flowers."

"…What?"

Vaughan nodded, but did not smile. Instead he twirled in the chair slightly catching her eyes. "Flowers. Big pretty arrangement. Lots of color. Michael's ogling it now. Wanna see?"

And a moment later, from her place in Pearse's doorway, Angie took several long minutes to stare at the arrangement as it sat on his desk before chewing on her bottom lip. "Now," She began thickly and as if each word brought her pain. "I'm not jealous."

"Bugger." Michael drawled as he pulled a flower from the arrangement and began to pluck the petals one after another. "I'd be. Daddy's getting us a new mummy."

Angie ignored him as he began to play 'he loves her, he loves her not' on the flower. "But we still have protocol, and Vaughan?"

"Yeah Ange?"

"This requires discretion, Vaughan."

"Yes, Ange."

"Find out what you can about this…woman."

"Olivia Farrell."

Angie looked up at Michael. "What?"

"Farrell, Pearse left her name and business card with the guard at the front desk." He smiled softly as he pulled the last petal as a 'he loves her.' Then he inclined his head and waved the naked steam knowingly. "Said he might be late coming back."

--------

The restaurant was the kind of cramped sort of quarters that was dark regardless of the time of day or effectiveness of the lights. A woman sung Italian in deep, raspy tones amid violins and guitars from speakers hidden somewhere behind bundles of fake, silk flora. On either side were crude little psuedo-impressionist paints of Milan and Nice and each table was decorated with the typical red and white-checkered cloth. Two or three of the small tables were filled with suited businessmen and another with some would be Hemingway who sat in the corner, clad all in black, with a journal opened on the table and cheap bottle of wine resting neglected by the bread.

And sitting behind a small bundled of white flowers drinking a glass of red wine and playing with the corner of her menu idly was Olivia. She wore a dark red blouse that hung lazily over her pale shoulders, and a long flowing skirt that pooled around her. She seemed to like being swallowed up in clothing; it seemed to make her smaller, less assured.

Pearse smiled a little at the idyllic scene.

She looked up only when he had pulled the chair from under the table across from her. She blinked a little before blooming into a smile. "Am I terribly naughty?"

Pearse nodded. "But creative. Where's my wallet?"

Olivia reached into her purse and produced his wallet wordlessly before smiling at him. "Could you blame me?"

He left the wallet on the table, he watched as she poured him a glass of wine and took it without question. "You clean up nicely."

"And you…" She began softly before leaning back and taking him into her gaze. "Are just as formal as I saw you last night."

Pearse instantly regretted the choice of clothing. "Old habits."

"Do you own a pair of jeans, Father Harman?"

"It's a personal question isn't it, Ms. Farrell?"

Olivia shrugged demurely. "I don't have a lot of time with you, do I? It's hardly the time for civility."

Pearse flinched and took another drink of wine.

"…I didn't mean it like that. I meant…all I have is lunch before you sweep out of my life, and I might as well…bullocks. I'm terrible." She looked down and took a drink. "I need more wine." He refilled her glass. She blushed. "I'm sorry, Pearse. I didn't mean to be so…"

"Refreshing." Pearse supplied. "Don't apologize. My colleagues know I am dying but refuse to admit it." He paused and shrugged. "As if it removes for a moment the fact I am."

"Do you have any family?"

Something dark danced across his face as he leaned back. "…they died, when I was very young."

"I'm sorry. How?"

"In the war."

"War?"

Pearse licked his lips and shifted, staring away from her. Outside, couples milled about and laughed and life passed as he sat watching them from behind the glass. "A private one, the kind you don't really realize is going on till it affects you…or takes something from you."

"I'm sorry." Olivia whispered and then with a respectful pause, she prodded. "Is that why you joined the Church?"

"I found it was the best means to protect myself."

"From?"

"The war." He shrugged a little. "And you? Do you have family here?"

"I was married once…a long time ago." Olivia bowed her head and drew a finger across the rim of her glass. "He, however, found things more important then me and a family."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not. The best thing he did was walk on me. It made me see some things about people I never would have seen trapped away inside my little home as a wife." She inclined her head to consider this. "Well that, and give me my babies."

"You have children?"

She nodded. "Two boys. Colm and Philip. Colm helps me around the shop and with some of my more business matters- it's very much a family business what I do- while Philip is more of," And at this point there was a delicate pause as Olivia took on a decidedly matronly appearance. "He's more of an artistic soul."

Pearse arched his brow and smiled. "Aha, children to bribe. At last we're getting somewhere."

"Bribe and why would you need to bribe them?"

"I have every intention of accidentally leaving my wallet here, and coming over to your house tonight. Since that will give you plenty of time to come up with some other way to keep me around, it's only a manner of time before I meet them."

Olivia smiled at him.

"Do they like pizza? I make a wonderful take out…"

"And what makes you think they'd want to meet you?"

"I'll have you know I make a wonderful father." Pearse paused, closed his eyes and snorted. "And what a terrible pun."

"Yes, but your cute when you blush." She laughed at the face he made.

"Oh don't call me cute. You don't call a man cute. It's…belittling."

"However accurate."

Pearse opened his eyes, and met hers. The wine had begun to give him a warm fuzzy feeling. He would have to remember to watch his intake with the medicine. Screwing up his face, he made a sound that sounded somewhere between a meep and wince. "Not cute."

Olivia managed her best sympathy smile as she reached over and patted his arm, empathetically. "Yeah," She told him. "You are."


	3. Suspicion

**Author's Note: Go me and random forgotten stories!**

**Chapter Three: ****Suspicion**

There are certain places where time seems to pool together and linger, becoming stale and fixed in place. It sunk into the land, and in time was overcome by the outside world. Whiskey in the Jar was that sort of place. Surrounded by cement and ironwork, the Antiques shop had a faux woodwork guise and the name was painted in fine gold calligraphy over the entrance. The windows were clouded, and cluttered with heavy furniture and dulling jewels. Two old hounds tied by a leash to the store slept on the sidewalk. When Vaughan Rice walked up to them, one on the left reared up his head and stared at him for a time with his drooping brown eyes.  
Then, the dog moaned in a morose tinny voice before lowering his head again and going back to bed.

Rolling his eyes, Vaughan pushed open the door, ignoring the pleasant tinkle of bells over head, and stepped into a hallway with dozen of Vaughans staring back at him. Dozen of mirrors of every shape and make littered the narrow hall. As a matter of fact, Vaughan's usual business rarely afforded him visits to places with mirrors and surprisingly, it threw him off guard. Fixing his face with his best nondescript seriousness and walked further into the antique store.

There were lots of old chairs and wardrobes. Clusters of sixties-style clothing were dumped one on another as if the owner had yet to shift and sort through each piece. More mirrors glistened from the vanity tables. Gloves hung from silver bowls. Crosses and religious paintings with their saints turned upward to heaven decked the walls near the ceilings. Scarves and hats sat nestled on top of counters. Somewhere from an old radio Frank Sinatra crooned about love and lost.

"Charlie, is that you?" Sang a voice from the back. Vaughan heard footsteps crawling downstairs and a moment later, a man appeared on the staircase near the back of the store.

The man took in Vaughan and smiled. He was tall and pale. His smile glistened in the darkness of the store but did nothing to diminish the bright intelligent blue eyes that fixed on Vaughan and didn't seem to blink. The man had a crop of auburn hair, slightly curled and coiffed around his face, invoking a decidedly old movie star grace or style to his actions. He turned, and slumped the box he was carrying unto the near desk and motioned for Vaughan to come nearer.

"Forgive me, I thought you were Charles. I'm Colm. Welcome to Whiskey in the Jar."

"I'm looking for Olivia Farrell."

"My mother." Colm supplied, laughing a little. "She's having lunch with someone right now. Could I be of service Mister…"

"You're Colm Farrell. A coin collector and appraiser for Bonham's."

Another trickle of laughter. "Now I know you know mother. She's always embellishing my work. Bonham's has asked for my input only twice, and the purchases I made for the company were through a private contractor. I'm afraid all I do is show, and speak. I have no money for the games they play." Colm inclined his head. "Are you interested in coins?"

"I'm not here to buy."

"But you wish to speak to my mother? Here to sell, then." Colm nodded. "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."

"It wasn't offered." Vaughan shrugged, taking in the store. Already he could feel something off about the store, though it wasn't so much sinister as just…old. Hidden. He turned back to find Colm's cool, unaffected eyes still set on Vaughan. "I represent a private party. They're interested in your operation here."

"Operation?" Another laugh, this one more insulting then Vaughan would like. He stood a little straighter, and was pleased to see Colm stiffen and retreat. Colm swallowed. "I'm afraid you're considering us a little more high class then we are. My mother is an expert in her field, yes. My brother and I can hold our own in some of the circles but we mainly deal with the day to day purchases." Colm made a sweeping motion. "We just talk big. I handle coins, my mother knows house wares. We hardly have anything to show for it. What is it that your employer is looking for?"

"Your brother…what's his specialty?"

"Philip?"

Vaughan sensed the hesitation.

Colm appeared undeterred. "He reads people. If you are uncertain of the trustworthiness of a person, Philip…knows things. Would you like to meet him?"

"Yeah I would."

"Some other time. He's resting now." Colm's brilliant smile flashed, and then a hand began to motion to a desk set. "Feel free to leave your name and number and I'll be more then pleased to tell mother you were looking for her and Philip." The smile remained fixed and suddenly Vaughan realized he smiled a fox smiled. His distaste grew exponentially from there. "Perhaps we could arrange a meeting. I would so love to see us all in a room together."

* * *

The store was almost pitch black when Olivia walked in, tripping over the dogs as she went and giggling softly. She'd had too much wine. Her stomach hurt. Her head was dizzy and there was a grin that had been on her face since lunch. The dizziness was half butterflies, and half upset stomach. The Italian food hadn't settled (not that she was that surprised) but still, not even hugging the throne for the rest of the evening couldn't have crushed her mood.

There was a thin low growl in the darkness that made her swing about just as the lights clicked on.

Colm was sitting in her wicker chair at the desk. As usual, his suit was immaculate and bright like stripped bone, and those devious blue eyes he had gotten from his father were hidden under a pair of expensive glasses. He peered up at her over the rims. "Did we enjoy ourselves, mother dearest?"

Olivia felt her arms go cold. "I didn't see your car." She swallowed and ran a hand over her face as if it could tear the smile away even though Colm's unflinching gaze had already succeeded. "Where's Philip?"

"A little birdie told me you took the priest to lunch, and then to a museum. You've become awfully chummy with a man sworn to celibacy."

Olivia made a point of ignoring his eyes as she passed, and she tapped his shoes from her desk as she sat down. It was then she noticed Philip, crouched on the chair, with his feet on the cushion, and his hands cropped over the knees. Her youngest son was by far more interested in the designs of the woodwork to care much for his mother's actions.

Philip was stocky and blond. His hair was curly, worn long about his face. He wore long white tunics and brown trousers with no shoes. The tunic was splattered with clay and his fingernails were dirty. He would begin to chew on his fingernail for a moment and then seem to think better of it, before ignoring that habit to move on to something else. His honeyed eyes darted from place to place nervously before he felt Olivia's eyes on him. He looked up and smiled. Olivia smiled easily into his wide, blank brown eyes. "Hello, Philip. Have you eaten, lovely?"

"Colm took me to the park."

"The priest." Colm returned.

"Is none of your business." She continued.

"Mother," Colm began softly as he stood. "Are you attracted to this man?"

Philip frowned a little and slipped out of the chair, to follow his brother. Reaching over, he wrapped his arms around his brother: one arm under the arm and to the shoulder with the other attached to his waist and pushed his cheek against Colm's back. Olivia watched him and felt tired.

"Not attracted." Philip mewed. "She knows. Mother knows. Don't you, mother?"

Olivia leaned back. Her fingers still held the memory of Pearse's hand in hers. "I know."

"I've worked too hard to have you lose sight now." Colm warned. "There's too much at sake for your whim."

"I told you…I'd do what you wanted, Colm. Do not speak to me as a child."

"Do not forget what is at stake here."

Olivia reached her hand out as if to touch Philip's hair, eyes watching her younger son desperately. Colm smiled at this and leaned back, bracing his brother closer to him and drawing a finger across his jaw line and down to his neck. He smiled at her. Olivia swallowed and relaxed. "I haven't forgotten. I'll get it done." She told him. "Just…tell your friends to be ready."


	4. Secrets

**Author's Note: **Angst. Angst. Review. Let me know someone out there reads this.

**Chapter Four: Secrets**

Vaughan was sitting once again in the conference room, sulking and listening to Michael. Angie was sitting across from him, in rapt attention. Pease, as was becoming the old man's habit, was absent. And only adding to his sour attitude was the cause for the meeting, it made Vaughan feel traitorous and backstabbing. He felt like a conspirator, plotting against his Caesar.

He was sure there was some place in hell for people who spied on their boss.

"In the cutthroat, oh-so-exciting world of antique dealing, the Farrell clan- Olivia and two sons: Colm and Philip-are new fish. All we have on them are about thirty years old, all pretty standard, and with the just right amount of angst and melodrama that works for the Irish." Michael deadpanned before rolling his eyes, and pushing on. "Olivia got some money from a private corporation to relocate in London. The move was involving the Troubles. No mention of a husband or child payments, so we think Daddy was killed during that time. He could have been anything from an Ulster, Provo or even constable for all we know…records from Ireland at that time are spotty at best. Son Philip was said to be a victim of one of the attacks: our fault, not the terrorists. He's a little unwell…and simple. Reclusive almost. Olivia dotes on him."

"And the other son?" Vaughan was staring at the file before him in his usual stony expression. "Colm. What do we have about him?"

"Yes…well. Colm is more cosmopolitan. He's done more then a few jobs for Bonham's but unlike he told you, he wasn't an auditor. He was a buyer. His pet hobby are coins, but he also dealt with unique artifacts…" Michael grimaced. This part he'd be willing to avoid. "Occult stuff from…indigenous peoples."

Angela had smelled his discomfort and caught on. She sat up a little, watching him coolly. "From where?"

"The Americas. Brazil."

Now even Vaughan tensed but eased in a nonchalant reply. "Could mean anything."

"It could, but probably doesn't. See, Colm was in Latin America when Hoyle was about causing his little fires. Now Brazil's a big place though, so don't delve too much into it…however, when Colm got back he quit Bonham's and began to pour money into his mom's shop. Despite being so small and unassuming Olivia's little place has gotten quite a reputation of carrying and transporting items all over the world in discretion. Colm does most of this business, and he's been investigated a few times for illegal stuff- pretty standard in the art business…no charges."

"Do we have cause to suspect Code V involvement?" Angie chirped.

"Do we ever let that stop us?" Michael cooed.

"See if you can find anything more about Colm's dealings in Brazil. If he worked for Bonham they had to have records. See if you can find out if he did any work around where we know Hoyle was."

"Aye ma'am."

"Are you going to tell Pearse?" Vaughan asked, easily. His eyes never once left the page before him.

There was a long pregnant pause between the three of them, but it was Michael who spoke first. "He does have a right to know what we're doing. I don't like going behind the man's back…" then there was the only softest of gazes at Vaughan. "again. And if this is something involving the Code V's…shouldn't he know before he gets hurt?"

"Pearse can handle himself in a fight."

Michael paused again, and seemed to shrink somehow. Vaughan sunk into his chair. It had been his personal maxim to never broach uncomfortable subjects with her. The woman had had too much pain for his brash mannerisms to harass. Michael, however, did not seem to have those qualms. He was a cop, though. They were use to harassing pain. The best answers came in those dark moments. "I didn't mean like that…"

Angie fixed in him in the darkness of glares. Vaughan had been on the receiving of the stare once or twice in his life and never wanted to see it again. This one burned, for two reasons: one because it meant Angie was hurting and he was powerless to fix it, and two because it was for Pearse that she hurt.

And he was powerless to fix it.

He could feel Michael's eyes on him, begging him to help him be the voice of reason. Vaughan stared down at the paper. He could not interfere. It hurt too much. He could hear Michael sigh and push on. "Come on, Ang. A blind man could see how Pearse's been the past week with Olivia. He's happy."

"He's found a confidant," Angie began easily, in the manner she would speak of blood samples and lab reports. "He's never been sick before…"

"He's dying." Vaughan flinched. Angie continued to stare into the corner. Only Michael had the will to continue. "And she's lost someone." He stopped then, and softened. "it wouldn't be the first time lost has birthed something more…"

"He's a priest, goddamnit."

"He's a man who's dying alone."

"He's not alone!" Angie hissed angrily.

"Everyone dies alone." Michael finished coolly. He remained quiet for a long time, trying desperately to keep whatever was on his mind firmly behind his teeth. He failed miserably. Pushing his papers together, he rose from the table again and all but ran to the door. "And he's going to one thing that's isn't reminding him of that! If you're right, she's also the one thing that makes it not matter- for a moment. Do you think he ever forgets it? Do you?"

* * *

Olivia watched Pearse twist in his sleep. The medication designed to make his body push on rather then surrender made his slumber fitful and nervous, and despite his clothing, she could feel his body warm against hers. It had been a long time since she had shared her bed with a man. But despite that, and the distance she knew existed between him and her, how right this felt struck her. This could have been a happy little family; Olivia found her thinking before she had time to dismiss the dream.

She moved slightly, and Pearse moaned in his sleep but kept his eyes shut. He maneuvered his arms around her waist and curled just enough to rest his head on her stomach.

Olivia swallowed and tensed.

"It's late." She told him, quietly.

"No it's not."

"The sun's out. You're already late for work, and then your friends will really hate me if I keep you."

"I can miss one day." Pearse continued. His voice was thick with sleep, and slow in formulating the words. She smiled. She braved reaching over and brushing the hair around his ear, tracing the streak of gray till it disappeared into his dark hair. He smiled, and cocked his head, folding his cheek and jaw into the palm of her hand.

She stared at his neck.

"I know." Pearse said suddenly and brightly, even though his eyes remained shut. Olivia could almost imagine him smiling, even though the man never smiled at anything but cruel irony. "We shall play a game. You do like games."

"A game, father?"

"A game." He intoned, ignoring his title, as he had never done before. She shivered and looked away. "What sort of game?"

"If I did, you would." He continued. "I'll begin. 'If I told you I've never been happier, you would…"

"Smile but know you were lying." She replied, softly. She stared at the wall, and the curtains that hid the sun. Her body trembled. "If I told you, you had important things to attend to at work…"

"I would say there's nothing important enough to tear me from here right now." He whispered. "If I asked if you wanted me to leave…"

"I would say no…" She turned and stared at his profile. "If I asked you to stay with me."

"I would agree."

"Forever."

Pearse laughed sleepily. He shifted, and hugged her tighter. "Forever. There's a concept I'm familiar with…"

"Me too."

There was a pause.

"If I agreed to forever?" He asked softly.

Olivia swallowed, fingers reaching down and grazed his neck. She continued to watch him for a long time. She could feel the pulse of his heart beating softly under her fingertips. She glanced to the table beside the bed and the peppering of pill bottles. Occasionally during the night, he had coughed and forced air into his lungs: and she, both ignorant and painfully aware of those mundane tasks, had known it was futile in the long run because of the silent virus that curled through his veins and blood.

Sighing, she pushed him till he rolled over, and rebuked her. "Hey!"

She was downstairs before he had the chance to sit up. "I'll make you breakfast, then off to work with you."

"Olivia?"

"Don't forget to take your pills, Pearse." She called back. "All of them."


	5. Solidarity

Author's Note: I'm proud of myself and this fic for one reason. Outside of Babbitt who reads most of my work because I make her, I'm relatively sure this is a lonely little fic with no friends to call its own. That being said, it's going to be finished. Enjoy and review. Chapter Five: Solidarity 

Michael's first Chief was an old Irishman who seemed in a constant state of being hung over. He was overweighed and couldn't complete a sentence without adding some sort racial, religious or social slur into it (preferably as the noun.) Everyone called him Mick, even though his real name was Arthur, and he was quite content to be renowned as yet another racial epithet. He called Jack a homo, and had a laugh that was a cough and swear word all in one.

Michael hated him with a fierce passion but Jack adored him.

It was Mick that first paired Jack and Michael. Jack's idea. Michael had a reputation for being far too jaded for a rookie and much too straight lace for a cop. Jack, under Mick's watchful eye, had taken it upon himself to teach Michael all the nice little grays of policing. And as much as Michael was loathed to admit it, Michael learned more about survival and being a copper from that foul-mouthed homophobe and Jack then he learned in the years afterwards.

Mick was killed within five blocks of the HQ as he skipped out early. He had taken a very late dinner and was riding the clock. The shooter was an Arab youth hopped up on glue. No suspects. No names.

The funeral was an ocean of navy blue uniforms and black business suits. The Mayor made a touching speech, and the rabbi (turns out ol' Mick was a Jew) said something in Hebrew Michael was sure was touching in that transparent way all cop funerals are meaningful.

He remembered feeling vaguely guilty about not crying or feeling in the least upset over Mick's death. It had seemed natural to him, that old men should die, and old cops rarely were granted longevity. It was no more surprising or new to him then a change in departments.

In fact, the only memory he could really invoke from the funeral was the feeling of profound determination that he felt as he refuse to look over at his partner.

He didn't want to see Jack cry.

Looking across the car, Michael felt another swell of determination and vague guilt.

Vaughan's dark features betrayed no hint of any emotion apart from the classic guise of boredom that always haunted the man's eyes. But Michael knew better. Vaughan's face didn't show his distress, it was the soldier's hands. The man was gripping the steering wheel so tightly, Michael half-wondered if he could have broken it. Vaughan's eyes were settled on the old Antique shop like a hawk's. There was a solitary light in the upper floors, Olivia's loft by the reports, but it was dimmed. The store itself was abandoned and blackened.

A car hung by the curb. When Vaughan's eyes moved at all, it was from the light to the car and back again. His jaw tensed every so often, swallowing his anger. Michael shifted.

Michael's loyalty was another vague concept. It came from blatant acts instead of old-fashioned ideals of command and protocol. He protected Jack because Jack took a bullet for him once. He protected Vaughan because he fully realized that Vaughan saved his life more times then he would probably ever know. He did the same for Angie because she made sure he never walked into something blindly.

As far as he could tell, all Pearse had ever done for him is prove that not all monsters are invisible to mirrors.

"When you called Angie…" Michael drawled slowly. "She say if Pearse showed up yet?"

"No sign. Wasn't in today."

"Home?"

"We have someone there, nothing yet."

Michael counted to four in his head. "You think he's up there."

Both sets of eyes settled back on the dimly lit room. Vaughan looked away first. "Dunno."

"I could go up and knock." He waited. Not even a flexing of the muscles, Michael leaned back again and counted. This was a handy little trick he learned from Jack about interrogations. Jack had been an actor in school and knew all about beats. Two seconds for comedy, three for drama and four to get the audience really antsy. If they're nervous, they'll do whatever you want them too. "..what are the chances, you think? Of the Leeches' actually being involved in this and not some desperate old Bess? I'm sure, somewhere out there…is a woman who could maybe think Pearse's an attractive sort of…something."

Vaughan grunted.

"I bet it's the gray…"

"I don't believe coincidences."

"Neither do I…" Another pause, two seconds. "I did some checking before we left…" Another pause, and this time Michael sat up and adjusted himself. He even feigned a yawn. "You know, Ange is changing the medication for old Pearsey…turns out the first one wasn't working."

Vaughan flinched. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thousand four… "If you have something to say, say it, mate."

"Why are we doing this?"

"It's not clear already?"

"…not really…see I was under the impression that in this line of work, compassion was viewed as a failing."

"A strange sort of compassion this is. Spying on him."

"What do you call it then?" Pause. Beats, and Michael counting in his head. Be careful. "What's this about, Vaughan, really?"

"They'd love to get at him."

"He's already proved himself to you…" Careful, Michael, this isn't just an interrogation. "Didn't he?"

"You've been on this since we left." Vaughan suddenly hissed. "Trying to make Pearse out to be some kind of traitor."

"Isn't that what you're afraid of?"

"No!"

"Then what…"

Vaughan looked away. Trapped. Michael knew that look too. He saw it in Jack's eyes at the funeral and in the countless eyes of suspects from across the table. It was the haunted look of a man who clearly saw the ending and hated what he saw.

"Vaughan…tell me why you're fighting this hard."

No response. Michael cursed under his breath. Any moment now, he'd start rattling off his name, rank and serial number.

"You don't understand…" Vaughan muttered, mostly to himself.

"You're right." Michael rebuked. "I don't. What do you think he's up to, Vaughan? What are you afraid of…and don't act like it's nothing. I need to know if I'm going to help you…"

Vaughan looked at Michael for the first time that night. Silence filled the air for such a long time that Michael wondered for a moment if he was about to be punched. He was certain he'd deserve it too. Instead, Vaughan continued to speak in a whisper. "Was the first one who said 'I believe you.' He was the first one to explain…what happened. Why. He fought this longer then I have…hates them more. Can't let him fail. He didn't let me."

The words were simple, in halting speech and choked out as if they were some kind of bedroom secret Vaughan had never told another soul. Before he could reply, Vaughan suddenly push open the door and disappeared into the night air.  
Michael cursed and hit his head against the back of his seat.

It was then he realized the light in the bedroom had flickered off.

**0000000**

Vaughan had taken several steps out of the car before he became aware of the voice from behind him. Smooth and honeyed, it was greatly amused and jarred with each step the speaker took. Vaughan turned around as soon as he recognized it, sliding one hand into his coat pocket.

"You don't have the speed, Mr. Rice and I don't have the desire." Colm held up a hand. There was that smile from the shop plastered onto the man's face. Somehow it was darker, menacing in the moonlight. Vaughan removed his hand. "There now, see? We can be civil."

Vaughan glanced at the car.

"I wouldn't." Colm warned. "Your Father is with my mother, and I doubt you'd wish something bloody to befall the dear one."

"He's not afraid to die."

"Is that a courage you share, however. Are you quite prepared to see your dear one fallen victim to the war he always knew he'd lose?" The smile widened; bone white teeth brandished against the black night. "O Captain, my Captain…" Colm glanced behind him. Content in the knowledge that he had all the cards. "My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still. My father does not feel this arm. He has no pulse, nor.." At this another grin, and a small chuckle. "nor will. The ship is anchored safe and sound. It's voyage closed and done. But I with mournful tread…walk the deck where," Colm bowed his head. Laughing.

Vaughan palmed his gun again.

"It's a timely poem you should look up, if you are ever given the occasion to recite it. I think your priest would enjoy it. It has all the right sorts of angst and foreboding." Colm reached one delicate finger up and scratched his nose. "You know, I know why you are here and in a way, I'm very much relieved. With mother's constitution and reservations, I had worried this would be some long drawn out affair…but you're arrival, and no doubt report will hurry things along nicely. How grateful I am that this doesn't have to be some black cape, Bela Lugosi affair…" He smiled, and bowed his head as he began to retreat. "Now, tell me, Mr. Rice." Colm drawled quietly. "Have I answered all your questions?"

Vaughan turned and ran back to the car.

Pearse had appeared by the time he hit the car's driver side door.

**000000**

The shop's door opened and for a moment the night's quiet was shattered by a duet of laughter.  
Pearse was stumbling forward, a smile over his face, and his feet rebelling under his command. Michael saw his hands clutching those of the woman who tottered behind him, laughing and humming as they walked. She swung into his arms and there was a pause as they stood face to face, only a breath away from each other.

Pearse was watching her eyes before smiling again, a little heavier this time and pulling away.

Michael saw Pearse seeing him and cursed. He pushed out of the car, and leaned against it, bowing his head and waiting.

Pearse had frozen in his place in the middle of the street. Over the older man's features was a blank, opened mouthed expression that resembled-despite all outward indication-anger. There were several moments that passed where the Father simply blinked and pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat. Behind the woman had stepped back, frowning nervously.

If Pearse was aware of her continual presence, he could care less. He stalked towards Michael like an avenging angel, jerking a finger to the car.  
"Get in." He hissed. "Office now."

**000000**

If she was a little more aware of her surroundings, Olivia would have felt cold. Instead, she stood with her arms folded around herself and watched the car disappear down the street. Had she any tears left, she would have cried. Instead she stood and stared at it with a sorrow that surpassed tears and breaking hearts. There was an ageless resolve in her stance, in her eyes that enfolded her as she stood there. It looked for a moment as if her entire life's sorrows pooled together in her eyes and created, rather then bitterness and despair a hard brand of wisdom and clouded her mind and sapped her soul.

Her skin crawled when she felt Calm's hands touch her shoulder. "Mother, are you hurt?"

"Is this what you wanted?"

His voice was low, a prefect facsimile of concern. "You knew it would come to this."

"I just need more time."

"You've run out of time."

Olivia turned and met his eyes. "Colm…" She whispered. "What have you done."

"The others were getting impatient mother." He interjected sharply as he crossed to the car, motioning to her to follow. "We've…I've worked too hard to be compromised now. Do not forget what you wanted for us…Philip and I. Do not forget what you promised?"

"I haven't."

"How can you be sure?"

"Don't talk to me like a child. I know the words…"

"It's about time you start believing in them." He returned. "Or at the very least…pretend." Never flinching from her gaze, Colm leaned over and opened the door of the car. "And now mother…are you in or out?"

Olivia held her place for a moment before wordlessly taking her place in the car. She felt cold.


	6. Sound

**Chapter Six: Sound**

_**O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells…**_

Pearse was slouching in his seat. He had no expression on his face, no rebuke on his lips even though Vaughan wanted him desperately to react. Pearse had always been action- cruelty perhaps, even a callousness that left even an old soldier numb but action nonetheless. He had been movement, determination. The foundation. The general. The _reason_…

Whenever the sheer disbelief of what he did hit Vaughan in the chest and dared to topple him, or whenever the simple pain of it all had caused him to stumble or reach out blindly; Harman had always been there. Pearse had always been so sure of what they did, so adamant that it was necessary. He'd been wiser then to employ words like right and just; had been careful on that account, for Vaughan. Pearse had provided what Vaughan needed. A reason, not justification. In that respect, the priest was more faithful then god, more attentive then Lucifer.

_**Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;**_

But the priest did not move, long after Michael and Angela had stopped explaining. He just stared into the corner of his office; stony faced and silent as a tomb. Angela was sitting on his desk squeezing his arm, her eyes dark and concerned. Michael had fallen back and was staring into the same corner as Pearse was. His face was relaxed, bored even. Vaughan wasn't surprised: cops were comfortable with traitors and treachery. For them it was just another aspect of humanity, another brand of petty crimes; akin to parking tickets and drug peddling.

But for a priest- for a soldier- spies, and subterfuge were extremes. For the former, treason made the Heavens fall and for the later, countries crumbled. Neither one's brain seemed able to grasp the idea that someone could claim to be something wholly, completely and then suddenly not be.

Yes, Pearse had encountered countless masses of people had chosen to discard their humanity to become leeches and yes, he had met dozes of monsters that could masquerade as humans. But had he ever loved one…

The word stopped Vaughan's musings cold. It changed things. Love...they had never really thought a leech was capable of it.

What about Pearse…

It made the room colder.

**_For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;_**

Vaughan shifted in his place. Without thinking, he pushed his coat back and readjusted his holster. It was a nervous habit he'd had since basic. When in doubt, check your ammo. Wordlessly, he pulled the gun and unfolded the mirror. He watched Michael in the mirror for a second and then lifted the gun slightly, catching Pearse's in his sight.

The gun cocked

And Pearse, looking up and staring up at the barrel, suddenly recoiled.

**_For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;_**

And Vaughan realized he was shivering.

**_Here Captain! dear father!_** **_This arm beneath your head; it is some dream that on the deck…_**

Pearse swallowed and straightened. "Angela, you've done enough…for the week, haven't you. You should go to home and sleep."

If Angie noticed the stiffness in his voice, or the dismissal; she didn't care. Her voice took on the same impassioned reluctance it always held. "You need me right now…"

Pearse met her eyes for a brief moment and then he rose slowly and moved to his private bathroom. "I think you've done all I required…you have a daughter to look after."

"She's fine!" Angie stood and took after him. "We have more…"

"Go home, March." Pearse said coolly. "What comes next isn't for you."

It was her turn to recoiled. Vaughan replaced his gun and straightened. He thought he heard something of the coldness in Pearse's voice. Something familiar. It heartened him, so much so, he barely heard Angie's reply. "And what's that exactly…"

"If Vaughan is right, we've already lost too much time. Colm won't wait. We need to act first…"

_**O Captain…**_

From above them, a fire alarm sounded. Pearse looked up first, but Michael was at the door, peering out, gun appearing from nowhere and finding itself comfortably in his hand. Angie moved closer to Pearse, and Vaughan moved closer to her. Pearse glanced back at her and her hand, before clapping his over hers. He returned his desk, pulling a gun from his desk drawer.

Michael opened the door. The hallway was blackened and glowing red and white from the flashing alarms. The electronic howl whined in and out of scope, like old sirens.

"What do you think, mate?" Vaughan called, inching closer to Michael and peering over his head into the darkened hallway. "Could be nothing…"

"Could be…" Michael said, ignoring him.

On cue, there was a rattle of gunfire in the distance, followed by a scream cut short.

"Isn't." Michael finished.

_**O Captain…**_

Michael disappeared into the darkness, gun at the ready. Before Vaughan or Angie reacted, Pearse was behind him- swallowed up whole by the darkness. The two remaining exchanged long looks and unspoken words. Then Angela walked over to Pearse's desk and pulled a second gun out. "You saw him?"

There was a silence as Vaughan decided on what she meant. "In the scope, yeah."

Angela nodded, and unfolded the mirror. "Follow him. Keep it that way…"

"And if I can't…"

_**You've fallen…**_

Angela looked up as the office lights failed and the generators took over. The room became bathed in the red dull glow of the generators and sprinkler systems. Vaughan saw the scar on her upper lip, the coolness of her eyes, heard the tremble in her voice. "Keep it that way."

Vaughan nodded.

"I'm going downstairs. The power supply's down there and the vault needs to be secured. They won't be foolish enough to try that but…best to be prepared. You know what to do."

Wordlessly he turned and plunged into the darkness.

_**Cold and dead…**_


	7. Smoke

**Author's Note: **Almost done. Thank you. Keep the faith, it'll be over soon.

**Chapter Seven: Smoke**

As an officer, Michael was required to take a minimum of twenty hours training every month in urban combat. It was all television and movie kind of stuff: knocking down doors, gripping guns amid smoke and shouts. In his years of service Mike had used his training maybe about three times; his first time had been in a drug raid. Old home with cat and dog shit all over the front yard, an old Indian lady who spoke no English and threw trash at them when they entered. The delinquents, about four youths who made methamphetamine in the old lady's kitchen, had no guns and were so doped up they didn't know the cops were there till Jack turned off the television and poured the rest of the coffee into the one guy's lap.

The second time someone had shot at him. Jack took that bullet. Third time, well the third time, was when he had crashed into the counterfeiting operation that bled into dirty cops and Code V's. He hadn't been to training in two months and he wasn't any near the die-hard officer one saw in movies. Mike was that kind of cop that got results the old fashion way, lots of paperwork and footwork.

Which made this whole scene of tramping around in headquarters supremely funny. Michael wouldn't have plotted it better if he had been writing for television. There was the darkened hallways, bathed in the red light of the emergency generators, highlighted by the occasional flash of the fire alarm. He did his best to drown out the howls of the alarm system and his footwork on the slick floors. The sprinkler system was always burning his eyes with water. He was both surprised and slightly disappointed that the building hadn't gone into lockdown with old iron gates slamming down around him. It would have made for a wonderful mood.

He had only a vague idea of a plan and it was simple and cop-like. Hear a scream, run to the scream. If Pearse had implemented any kind of emergency plans or fallback training, Michael didn't know about it. And, he honestly doubted he have trusted Pearse's plan at all. Once again, it was the old cop instinct.

He had none of Angie or Vaughan's blind loyalty to Pearse, and despite his best effort, Michael was acutely aware that he was perhaps the most level headed of the group. If Pearse was compromised, it would be him that covered it.

That thought was both resolute and frightening. He had no love for the man, but that did not mean he was certain that if his gun was trained on Pearse, he wouldn't blink.

That's all Pearse would need. One blink.

There was a shuffling behind him that froze Michael in his tracks, and dismissed his musings. The old training kicked in and threw all his senses into high gear: sight may be useless but he still had sound. The footsteps behind him were measured, leisurely; not at all the tread of someone who felt trapped.

Michael found a corner and wedged into it. His gun's mirror would be little help. The shadow was getting closer, the footfall still steady despite the produced chaos surrounding him.

"Colm…" The voice rang out clear against the sirens. "Colm is that you? Where's mother…"

So this one must be Philip, Michael thought, well that's all well and good. He got the crazy.

The Code V was stockier then he would have pictured a big scary monster. He was wandering around with his arms crossed over his chest. He was shivering in the water: partially from fear but mostly from the lack of clothing. Michael blinked twice and almost burst into laughter.

Philip had his hair slicked wildly around his large, bewildered face. He wore an oversized soccer jersey, khaki shorts and old climbing sandals with socks. Michael's first instinct was to pocket his gun and escort him back to the loony farm. It only hit him a moment later that he was staring at someone who was older and by far crueler then anything he would meet.

Ever.

Philip turned suddenly, lifting his head all the way up, till the water feel directly onto his face and around the contours of his face. Laughter rumbled somewhere in his gut, and then crawled up to his throat, till Philip's whole body shook as he laughed in the sprinklers. It was a surreal sight.

"I can hear your breathing." Philip's voice was lucid and deep; somehow Michael found himself struck by how such a plain figure could produce such a dark voice. It held the shadows and malice in its innocence. "You're the policeman, Jack told me about you."

Michael swallowed and pushed closer to the wall.

"Jack said you sounded like that when you were nervous…" The man's voice grew softer, and in the shadows, Michael saw him kneel to his haunches. Putting one hand in front of him, Philip snapped his fingers. Beckoning him like one would entice a stray dog. "We won't hurt you. Well, Colm will but I won't. I'm not after you..."

Vaughan's first lesson, and the Michael had put the most credence in had been the simple credo of shoot first. They were stronger, trickier and more callous then he could be. Still, the copper part of Michael pressed on to understand the 'why' as well the what. "…And what are you after?"

There was a pause, and then a simple pause followed by a slow response as if Philip wanted to sound out every syllable to make sure Michael understood. "Father."

"Pearse won't join you."

"He already has." Philip rose slowly. He stepped back, and smiled in sync with Michael's heart stopping. "You too. All of you or do you see a life forever outside of society and devoid of friendship and diversion as a proper lifestyle."

"Someone has to fight you."

"Why?" Philip suddenly appeared in front of Michael faster then it took him to blink. The Code V reached over and yanked the gun from his hand and threw it pushing him back into the wall. The man pushed closer to him, till his nose almost touched Michael's. "Why exactly do you hate us? Why do you fear…"

"I don't."

"Then why…"

"You killed my best friend." Michael whispered and then threw his whole body against Philip's. The Code V stumbled back and heaved. Michael made a dash to the gun.

And was promptly picked up by the nape of his neck like a kitten and pulled back. As the Code V spoke, Michael could feel his breath on his neck. "I did nothing of the sort. You mustn't blame me for actions of my kind…unless I'm allowed to do the same." The creature leaned in, lips brushing Michael's neck. Michael tried to squirm but decided that was about as effective as a grasshopper trying to escape a mason jar. "Do you know how many of my friends you've killed…"

Michael swallowed. Vaughan would never let him hear the end of this. Philip's voice was honeyed and calm. "I understand, you know. I might not agree with why or even how you fight but I do understand it. You want to preserve life. Believe it or not, that's what we want too. Pearse is just the beginning, we offer him life after all. What can you give him?" Philip leaned over, "how many more friends are you going to let die before you see we're not your enemy and of all the terrible things, officer, you could be fighting you chose to devote yourself to this. It isn't worth it."

There was explosion of light behind Michael's eyes that threw his brain around in his skull. Michael was aware of tossed unto the table and the table folding under his weight. A crossbeam shoved itself into his gut, making him cry out.

The was a swallowing of sound followed by another scream, this one too loud and enraged to be his own. Michael felt another round rake his brain and making, he double over. For a moment, tasted his lunch again and groan.

Growing up, he never wanted to be this kind of cop.

The next sensation Michael was aware of being lifted again. He tried his own feet for a moment and then tumbled into the other's arms. If it was Philip, he was screwed.

"Were you bitten?"

"Thank you, Pearse. I am alive. A little winded but otherwise top form."

"You're a little overweight." Pearse mumbled as he eased Michael unto a chair. Mike became aware of sitting and Pearse's hands on his knees in front of him and then sliding up to his chest and shoulders.

Michael shut his eyes to black out the pain throbbing right behind them. Pearse prodded his side again, recoiling as Michael winced. "What was that I said about lacy connections, Pearse?"

There was a sharp pain on the side of his head, where Pearse's hand impacted his temple. Michael would have laughed if he hadn't wanted to vomit again. The priest's hand touched Michael's neck, and the old copper howled and recoiled. His eyes opened long enough to stare at the black blood that coated Pearse's fingers. Pearse himself seemed frozen for a moment, before muttering. "This is not coming out of your medbank." He told him simply before speaking to someone behind him. Michael was aware of being lifted again and curt orders.

For one brief moment, Michael thought he heard his old Chief again, and heard a determination that had left long ago. For one soft, dull moment everything was black and white again.

"Get him into the clinic." Pearse was saying. "Allow no one in but Vaughan or Angela, highest guard. He hasn't been infected I'd like him to remain that way. Jordan, care to that burn."

"Sir, and you?" A young guard, Michael thought, was this Jordan?

"You have your orders." Pearse retreated. "Dismissed."

"Pearse…" Michael called, and waited for one long moment. His head was all loud explosions and pain but he a vague belief that the man was there in the darkness, waiting. "What he said…"

There was a long pause. "I heard." Pearse said, and was gone.


	8. Solace

**Chapter Eight: Solace **

Two hours ago, Pearse Harman could have died and died a happy man with no regrets. He would have been content with his life, and his choices and secure in the knowledge that as he left this earth he would have left his business to those willing and able to shoulder the burden. But, more importantly, two hours ago, Pearse Harman wasn't thinking about dying. He was thinking about that terrible red wine Olivia had picked out and trying to guess if Peter Lorre took the bird and would Bogart figure it out before the music swelled. Two hours ago, Pearse's biggest problem was that Olivia had cold feet and the vague understanding somewhere in the back of his mind that he could not spend another night over without seriously compromising his vows.

Two hours ago, Pearse had been the most normal he had been since he was a teenager. He was watching some old American film, with a woman whose company he enjoyed immensely and the cancer and Code V's that had taken up his life for the past month were as distant and make-believe as Lorre's Egyptian accent.

Now, Pearse was fighting the nausea in his stomach and groping in the dark to find Olivia and put her down.

He knew she was there. He was not the kind of man who lent himself to whimsical or romantic ideas like feeling her presence in a darken room, or hearing her heart against his. It just stood to reason that the one who hunted him would try to kill him. It seemed right somehow to have Olivia face him now…

"You can put the gun down, Pearse."

Pearse straightened, but did not lower the gun. He rose his head slightly and adjusted the sight on his weapon before turning slowly. The darkness and alarms swirled around in Pearse's head, making his vision swim.

Olivia stepped out of the darkness and met his eyes before speaking. "You can put the gun down."

Pearse glanced into the scope. In the mirror he saw nothing but dark hallway. If it was possible, Pearse understood how it felt to die in that moment. Still, he did not lower the gun.

Olivia lifted her hands to her head, and looked at him. "Pearse, if I was going to kill you, I would have killed you by now."

He cocked the gun and readjusted his grip.

She didn't flinch. "And you would have done it already it by now if you meant to shoot me."

There was a rattle of gunfire behind them, causing them both of them to look over. Pearse thought he saw her flinch but dismissed the idea. There was no way she could feel…she was a Code V, after all. A monster.

Olivia returned her deep gaze to him and from this distance, in the dark, Pearse thought he saw tears in the woman's eyes. The priest flinched and the gun in his hand wavered just slightly. In that moment, instinct took over and she seemed to think how easy it would be to overpower him because she tensed then but just stepped forward. Pearse did not dare to retreat. She almost smiled. "You killed my son."

"He was trying to kill mine."

"Michael?" She looked up, catching his gaze. "He isn't your family."

"How little you know me."

"You don't belong to them, Pearse." She began, lowering her hands and stepping forward again. He raised the gun and leveled it to her eyes. She stopped cold. She trembled. Pearse felt his stomach turn. "You don't have to do this." She said slowly. "You don't have to do this anymore…you're not a monster."

"No. I'm not."

"And you know I'm not either." She inclined her head. "You know me, Pearse, you now know what I am. Who I am…you've talked to me, laughed with me…I've shown you what you've fought, and you can't say I'm a monster…I'm just like you."

"You're nothing like me."

"How can you say that, now? After all you've seen, all I've been to you…all you've to me. How can you say we're not alike you and me?"

"I didn't give up my soul."

"Didn't you?" Pearse took the hit square in the chest, and was not entirely surprised when he saw Olivia's regret flash across her face. She flinched when she said those words, and cursed herself. Glancing for a moment to the gun, Olivia lifted her hands again. "You want to talk. Let us talk."

"Why me?" He asked simply. "Why did you do this to me?"

"Why not?" For the first time, her voice became tensed and annoyed. She was resisting the question.

"You didn't pick me out of boredom. I wasn't just a diversion…I wasn't a ploy. You couldn't have been that lucky. Why me?"

"We knew nothing about you." She closed her eyes. Pearse thought she suddenly became smaller just then. "The priest who ran the team…you were the Crusader. Something mythic." Another bitter smile blossomed on her face. "You were our very own boogeyman, Father Harman. A creature who could destroy man, woman and…infant without so much as blinking. You were so sure of your path…so sure you were right." Her eyes darkened. "We knew you butchered our kind and never questioned for a moment why or even if you were right. You paraded behind a title of sanctity while you hunted us… and I wanted to know what kind of man did such things. I wanted to know what kind of monster could do that. I wanted see the face of the creature that took away my future and never asked why!"

Pearse did not move. She seemed to soften then. Her voice that a moment ago had been so raging with passion that was surprising for such a little body fled suddenly. The tears he thought he saw returned to her eyes and when she spoke again it was just above a whisper. "And I found the monster in a bookstore…I saw the Crusader for everything he was in a café reading about cancer…and do you want to hear something funny? He wasn't a monster. He was man, sick and dying and scared of the night. He was pathetic and trembling, and…handsome. And isn't that funny, Pearse? To search all those years for the monster and find he really wasn't one. Isn't that funny?"  
There was a long pregnant pause, and she trembled, muttering. "Tell me it's funny."

"Yes. It's funny."

"I knew the moment I saw you we would fight one day, and every time I woke up to find you breathing next to me…I knew. I thought a hundred times I would one day be forced to kill you...knowing that if you knew what I did, you would think that same thing. It's so damn funny that way. How alike…we were. It's what makes it so wonderfully tragic. Makes it all romantic and like a story. Someone gets hurts, and someone dies…and things are said that can't be taken back. That's war, isn't it?"

Sometime during her speech, she had chosen to advance, each step taking with a word that followed, measured and slow. She seemed to be afraid of the chance his prejudices overruled his emotions. And sometime during her words, she had found his eyes and kept them. Pearse found himself thinking of how many times he had caught someone's gaze only to have them turn aside in disgust or fear of what he did. He thought for a moment that she was right, it was so damn funny, to find that the one person who did not look away was a dead woman.

His mind rebelled a moment later. He had called her a woman. Not a monster. Not a Code V. A woman.

"There's a problem with war, though." She was saying. She had come so close to him that the gun touched almost touched her nose. They were an arm's length from one another. "It's never clean. That's where this story fails. Where it stops to be funny. There's not going to be some last second where I prove I'm a monster, Pearse. This is all I am. I'm not a demon…" She offered a smile. "And I know you aren't. Even if we've done awful things, you and me, we're not evil. This war doesn't make sense for us…not anymore."

He was careful not to betray any emotion. She recoiled then. It seemed to him that she could have forgiven him for hating her, for fighting her but when she encountered his serenity, his apathy; she hated him.

It was so very human.

When Pearse spoke again, the voice was calm, detached. She seemed unsurprised. He doubted she would have been. He had a lifetime of practice. "You never explained what I was."

"I love you."

"Can your kind love?"

"Can yours?"

Pearse looked down. The gun faltered and in the split second, Olivia could have taken the gun and his life. She did move too, pushing away the gun and closing the distance between even more.

"You shouldn't try and test me, dear one." She told him. "I already know your games." He was staring at her throat, her body, desperately wishing this was some fevered dream. The murkiness of his brain swept and swirled around. He felt off balanced and so very tired. "And I'm not going to play anymore."

The words resounded in his skull and shook something loose. A smile brushed his features followed in succession by a flash of pain and remorse. He was vaguely aware of something being lost just then, and part of him wept for it.

Looking up, Pearse stared at her with new deadened eyes then, and would have touched his chest if he thought it wise but was half-certain he would have found nothing there. Something had fallen away from him with her words; something had fled…

He didn't feel sick anymore. Just tired. His whole body seemed poised on the darkness. What had gone, he thought, what did he lose just then when his shoulders slumped and as they did, the gun fell limply from his hand?

What had fled him just then, when he needed it most? Courage? Or Strength? Resolve? Or was it something simpler…his brain continued to drift slowly away, ignoring his protests and wonderings. He wondered what could have abandoned him just then to make him feel so…weak.

_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_

"I cannot let you leave here." Some part of him that was just instinct said without meaning it.

"You mean let me escape?" She cooed at him, like someone talked to a child. "I doubt it. Professional vanity, Father Harman, never let things end so sloppily. I would never forgive you for throwing away your values so easily."

"Then what would you have me do?"

"Come with me."

Pearse looked up, seeing but unseeing. He was suddenly so tired. So…weak, with bits of him falling away in the darkness. Why had left…why had God…Eli Eli…

How precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of one his saints… 

Where was He, Pearse wondered, where was God now…when he had always thought He would be there. God seemed absent again…

Just as He had that moment when Paul Hoyle had first offered Pearse this. Then he had been stronger…had been complete. God had seemed removed then but not gone. Now, Pearse just felt…

"You don't have to be afraid," He heard Olivia whisper as he became aware of her arms cradling him. "You don't even have to be concerned…you only have to be weak for a while…just one moment."

And Pearse closed his eyes, believing her.

He felt like he was drifting in the darkness and then he felt nothing at all.


	9. Suicide

Chapter Nine: Suicide 

Sergeant Vaughan Rice of Light Infantry had three commendations for valor, and the highest rank of marksmanship. He was called R Lee by some Kubrick fans back in the Gulf and had always taken a kind of morbid pleasure of his aim. He preferred the rifle to the handgun. There was more of brutal elegance to the weapon, something timeless and even though he had no qualms about using one; he hated the weapon.

That revelation often surprised people who thought they knew him. It was easy for them to assume because he was good at fighting and shooting, he enjoyed it or that because he took pride to perfect his talent, he reveled in it. All of those ideas were false. He despised guns and warfare. In a way Pearse use to say with uncharacteristic melodrama that only a soldier could hate it.

In truth, Vaughan hated loud noises, fires and the smell of oil made him wrench. He had an insuppressible hatred for yellow ribbons, Willie Nelson, and protestors. Once he had been cited for pushing a college student who was protesting Britain's assistance in the Middle East. Angie looked on his idiosyncrasies as a soldier's prerogative and had never cared more then to find out why. She had distaste for guns that bled into a discomfort whenever she was near Vaughan. Michael chalked it up to what the cop lovingly called, 'the soldier's sociable personality.' Vaughan often wondered if he was suddenly arrested for war crimes would Michael even feigned surprised.

It was Pearse who had ever seemed remotely inclined to understand Vaughan. It had surprised Vaughan at first. Pearse was a priest, and by default, a pacifist, and Vaughan wondered how on earth could such a man be inclined to learn about a soldier. Those were before the rumors of Pearse's cold-heartedness with a gun became evident and before his callousness became his vestments. This had been when all that was known about Father Harman was that he was a priest with limitless connections and quiet, lying eyes.

Back then, the priest would go down to the shooting range and watch Vaughan practice. He never spoke, and rarely moved from the seat behind Vaughan and just admired the gun-work. Vaughan lived in the building at that time because the outside world had become unfamiliar and dark since he returned from the war and his clearest memory of that time seemed to be Pearse, always there in the back. Waiting.

It was back when the nightmares were still terrible. When he woke up screaming from the memory or the pain in his neck, or the rain of burning oil…

And still, the dreams faded into the memory of Pearse keeping vigil. The priest, quiet and unaffected, walking into the room and taking his place beside the bed as if his presence would scare away whatever nightmare's haunted his charge…

Funny, too, how it seemed to work. Maybe it was the myth behind the priest's collar and not the man that had banished his nightmares. Vaughan doubted one man was that powerful. Even Pearse.

_O Captain, my captain…_

Vaughan readjusted the grip on his gun and refocused the scope on his gun. Angela had shut down the alarms, and water system but the building was still left in murky gray light and the occasional blast of white light. The emergency lockdowns had shut down most of the building from both the Code V's and Vaughan. The upside was of course that the more sensitive parts of the operations were safe. The down side was they were being bottlenecked into the main part of the building. He would have killed for a rifle right about now.

He stepped on something and jumped. More on instinct then plan, Vaughan fell to a knee and pressed his shoulder against the wall. Old training that always made more sense in the desert then in a city seemed to prove its validity now. Keeping his eyes forward, scanning the horizon, Vaughan reached down and groped for whatever he had stepped on.

He picked up Pearse's gun and for a moment, Vaughan's heart stopped. Then, with the precision of a soldier use to mourning in allotted times, he checked the ammo. The priest had got off two shots before being disarmed. He hesitated for a moment before folding the weapon and tucking it away.

"Leave it where it fell…"

Vaughan cursed his carelessness. He rose slowly, and turned around. Olivia stood there, watching him with one arm pushed into the darkness, bracing herself against the wall. Her lips were stained crimson, and her eyes could have glowed. For a moment, Vaughan believed all the horror stories. The demur creature of Pearse's description disappeared. Her eyes were cold, and there was an energy that pulsed through her small little body that caused Vaughan to recoil. He knew the look from the war. It was a kind of quiet hatred that fed on desperation and revenge. If she could have killed him, she would have in that moment.

Which made Vaughan wonder why she hadn't killed him as he knelt. She had the chance. He hadn't even noticed her when he passed, and there hadn't been time for her to get behind him. It meant she had been watching him from the moment he entered the hall.

What was she waiting for?

His hands lifted the gun.

"Don't." She warned again. With a sudden movement Vaughan missed, she jerked her arm free from the wall and spun what she had been holding towards her. She stepped back a little as the object hit her chest. But her eyes never left his.

If Vaughan were any other man, he would have dropped his gun. But he was Sgt. Rice of the Light Infantry, with three commendations for valor and the highest rank possible for marksmanship. There was a rumor that hounded him his entire life that said he was made of marble and that kind of cruelty that came from rectitude. They said about him that he possessed everything terrible that came in virtue. It could have been proven in that moment when Olivia pulled Pearse free from the darkness, and Vaughan reacted without so much as blinking.

Olivia held the priest with one arm looped under his armpit. The old man's head was bowed, eyes drooping shut, and lips were purpled but open. Without light, and in his dark garb, Vaughan couldn't tell if he was breathing. There was blood smeared over his neck and chin. If there was any life, it was hidden somewhere deep down.

Olivia asked softly. "You wouldn't want to risk shooting your leader would you?"

Vaughan hesitated.

"I didn't think so."

Then he lifted the gun. She laughed again. "Do not bluff, Mr. Rice…you wouldn't kill the man who supported you in this gallant little crusade just to get to me…"

"He was the leader," Vaughan said simply and cocked the gun. "Not the cause. I can kill a man."

Olivia blinked.  
"I have killed…"

"Not this man."

"He's dying anyways. If he could make it for something, do you think he would?"

The Code V flinched and looked down at the figure in her embrace. "Is the love you seek?" She seemed to ask the body. "My love brings life…look what they offer." She lifted her head and met Vaughan's gaze again. "I didn't come here to fight a war. You and Colm can play those little games. I am here to get what is mine. You don't have to do this…" The hatred retreated from her eyes for a moment. She had the look of an eternal mother, sad and pleading. Amazing how much they looked like real people. "You can let it go. I'll disappear and take him with me…you've already said your goodbyes. It doesn't have to end like this…you can walk away. You don't have to fight this battle."

"Yeah, I do." Vaughan said softly. "Pearse would never forgive me if I lost this one."

Lowering his gun to Pearse's calf, Vaughan fired. He ignored the priest's cry of pain and Olivia's enraged scream. Keeping his gun steady, he jerked the gun up to the man's chest. "Next one is aimed for his heart. What are you willing to risk?"

Olivia glared at him. For a moment, Vaughan did not breath, and his head remained still in his chest. Then the Code V reacted, throwing Pearse hard at Vaughan and darting into the darkness.

She hadn't noticed that the moment she released Pearse, Vaughan had dropped his gun and took off towards Pearse. He braced the man and eased him onto the floor, adding pressure on the gunshot wound.

Vaughan realized then he hadn't been breathing since he saw Pearse. It had been muscle memory that guided him, a soldier's mind: see a problem; remove the problem. He would wait to weather the consequences when the time was appropriate. He could grieve when it was safe.

And now Pearse lay in his arms, and his life was seeping slowly around him making circles in the carpet. Vaughan felt the emotions surge forward threatening to break the wall he had thrown up. Groping in the dark Vaughan found Pearse's leg, felt the wound, and pushed against and with his free hand, he rubbed the blood from Pearse's neck. His fingers felt no wound, even though he knew he wouldn't have.

Vaughan's hand went down to the man's chest, stumbling over himself to feel a heartbeat however faint. He knew the body could continue to bleed after the heart had stopped, knew the mind could play tricks on the person and he half-feared that small cadence he felt under his palm was his own imaginings. But he really didn't care at this point.

He just wanted Pearse to be okay.  
_**  
**O Captain, My Captain…_


	10. Sati

Author's Note: _Thank you for reading. Reviews are welcomed. _

**Chapter Ten: Sati **

Pearse was sitting up when Vaughan walked into the hospital. There was a bundle of lilies sitting on the little push table; bone white with pink streaked through. He could smell them from across the room. He walked slowly, hands in his pockets, watching the old man for any sign of movement. Pearse did not stir.

There were bandages on the man's neck, little plastic tubes that were connected to the machines and his arms that beeped and exhaled. On the chair beside the bed were Michael's coat, and a bible still in cellophane. The priest wore a thin blue shirt with the hospital's emblem stenciled over the breast pocket. His color had returned to him, though being away from home had robbed Pearse of vanity and his hair begun to curl wildly. He looked older, smaller as he rested, the lines of his face more pronounced, the gray starker.

Vaughan's arms burned from memory. By no stretch of the imagination was Pearse ever considered a slight man but Vaughan would swear he weighed nothing. All his weight seemed to escape from him in those circles of blood…

That night. There was an eternity from then and now, from the night where gray betrayals were thrown up and made clear. Vaughan was never one for melodramatics, and the pretense of it all probably made it hurt more. Vanity hurt almost as much as the betrayal. Almost.

"You saved my life."

Vaughan took his seat on Michael's coat. The bible, he moved, to the table next to the lilies. Didn't he know, Vaughan thought hatefully as he stared at his hands folded before him, didn't Pearse know he wasn't suppose to falter…

"I should thank you."

You took the coward's way out, and now act like nothing's wrong. You hypocritical fool…

"But will you?"

Pearse had opened his eyes, and was staring out the window to the construction site across the street.

You bastard, how dare you abandon what you stood for…

"Would you really want me to, Mr. Rice?" A beat, then a weak smile. Never did his eyes move away from the sunlight. "That's never been my style…"

"Neither was this."

"…No."

Vaughan leaned back in the seat, resting his head on the back of the coat, and shutting his eyes. He felt his eyes burning. If it could just stay this way for a moment, he thought, somehow everything would be okay again. A soldier keeping vigil over his wounded mentor, all thoughts of war banished to somewhere behind the next bottle and sad songs. Contained. Clean. Black and white.

O Captain, my captain…

"It shouldn't be this hard."

Vaughan looked over at Pearse and nodded. "No."

"Did you tell the others?"

"…Doubt they'd believe me."

"You should. I would have."

"Believed me?"

"Told them. The team survives on strength. You cannot have a weak link jeopardizing what you've worked eight years for."

"You were our strength." Pearse finally turn to meet his eyes, Vaughan kept the gaze for a moment before turning away. "This was your dream before it was any of ours. You were our foundation, Pearse. Or did you forget that?"

"I think I did."

"O Captain, my captain…"

"What?"

"Old poem…been running through my head for a while now."

"Oh?"

"O Captain, my captain, our fearful trip is done. The Ship has weathered every rack, they prize we sought is won…the port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting…" Vaughan closed his eyes. He could fight the pain. The tears stung. "But o heart, heart, heart…the bleeding drops of red. Where on the deck my Captain lies…"

"What a charming note for a bedridden old man…"

"Colm told it to me." Vaughan leaned back in his chair. "Walt Whitman. American poet during their Civil War, worshiped Abraham Lincoln and was devastated when the war took him too." Looking over, Vaughan thought he saw Pearse flinch. "So how's this going to end? You get taken away and I'm left holding the bag?"

"If I asked you to do that, would you?"

"Would it really be a request?"

"No I suppose not."

Pearse smiled lightly, and closed his eyes. "I'm very tired, Mr. Rice. I think I'll rest, now. Leave the man at the door. I can't sleep without him."

Vaughan rose dutifully. He picked up the wrapped bible and put it on the bed. Pearse smiled, shifting his hand to show his open palm to Vaughan. There, lying benignly between his fingers was a plastic rosary with the price sticker still attached. "See, you're not the only one who is watching out for me…I'll be safe for one night."

Vaughan grunted as he stood. "There are others who'll want answers…It doesn't end here."

"No. It doesn't, but they can wait…" A long beat, and then Pearse's voice ringing out. "Vaughan…" The soldier turned, facing the priest. Between them rested, duty and emotion, black and white. "Thank you."

Pearse watched the soldier leave, before returning his gaze to the window and stared out into the nothingness.

Waiting…


End file.
